


A Good Look

by volatilehearted (anomalagous)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Bottom Stiles Stilinski, Fluff and Smut, Halloween, M/M, PWP, alcohol use, occasional bad puns, silliness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-30
Updated: 2014-10-30
Packaged: 2018-02-23 05:34:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2536043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anomalagous/pseuds/volatilehearted
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Scott doesn't even want to go partying, anyway, but he does because Stiles, always because Stiles, and ends up with more of a reward for going along with it than he could have anticipated. Involving matching Halloween costumes and hard apple cider and maybe even a little dick-touching.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Good Look

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write a silly Halloween-related thing, so I did. I like mirroring Scott and Stiles with Cap and Bucky. Don't judge. PWP and shameless badly written pr0n.

“So tell me again why we're going to a party full of people we basically or literally don't know, where there will be under-aged drinking that I can't take part in, on what is supposedly the most supernaturally-active night of the year?” Scott sprawled out on the bottom half of Stiles' bed, arms starfished to either side of his body. The costume that Stiles had wrangled him into, after what felt like years of wearing him down to the idea, was a little unnecessarily bulky and maybe just a little too tight across the chest. It had a tendency to cut into the soft parts of his armpit uncomfortably. He could only imagine it was going to be worse with the harness for the plastic shield in place, which is why Scott was trying to put off putting that _on_ for as long as humanly possible.

Standing in front of the mirror hung inside his closet, Stiles was fully decked out in dark colors, made to seem longer and leaner than he really was by all the black. His attention was on the shoulder of his left arm, trying to get the sleeve of silvery colored fabric to fit snugly against all the main shirt. He flicked his gaze towards Scott on the bed and made a little snort of noise. “Because  _I_ still owe Lydia for that thing where Malia and I tore out an entire wall in her lakehouse, and  _she_ said that I could atone for my sins by coming to this party and adding to the headcount, and since  _you_ are my partner in crime, you get to come with me. Hand me the vest.”

Scott didn't hand it so much as fling it end-over-end in Stiles' general direction, but for once his best friend managed the simple feat of hand-eye coordination required to catch it without too much disaster. With the vest shrugged on, the seam of the 'metallic' arm was better hidden and Stiles' slender frame was given a little artificial bulk. The costume was almost passable for what it was supposed to be. “Okay, but that doesn't cover the fact that it's actually Halloween tonight. Samhain. Whatever you call it. Won't the town be on supernatural overdrive?”

Stiles quirked a smile that somehow managed to point more down than up over his shoulder, and reached into his pocket for a small container of something or the other. “Sure, if you believe in fairies.”

“ _Stiles._ ”

“Okay, okay,” Stiles allowed, and although Scott had closed his eyes, he could hear the hand moving in grandiose circles through the air. Literally. He could hear the air displacing. “ _Yes_ , okay,  _maybe_ , maybe some of the creepy-crawlies out there are gonna be a little more creepy. And crawly. Than usual.  _But_ , Deaton assured me it's not really gonna be anything we'll have to worry about, and if it  _is_ , everybody's got everybody on speed dial and we'll be taking Roscoe, so we can Avengers Assemble to where-ever we're needed. Besides, if you try to tell me you don't think it'd be a little extra hot if you were charging to the actual rescue dressed up as Captain America, you'd be the wrongest you ever wronged.  _Seriously_ .”

There was no arguing with Stiles when he got an idea burrowed in this far. It only ended up with pain on one or both sides. “Alright, alright. I'll go. For a little while.”

Stiles' laugh was rich, and Scott thought maybe it was worth it just for that, because he didn't get to hear Stiles laugh like that very much any more. “Well, it's good you're agreeing because I already told Lydia you'd be there and I wasn't going to be the one to call her to tell her you were chickening out. I prefer to keep my testicles in working condition. On that particularly bad segue, whatcha think, dude? Am I a passable Winter Soldier?”

Scott peeled his eyes open, turning his head to the side to consider Stiles, and felt like he'd been punched in the gut.

Ever the details man, Stiles had bought a stick of eye black and used it to fill in the entire socket of both eyes. It was a messy, smudged job, as it should have been, but between the darkness suddenly surrounding Stiles' eyes, the stark contrast between his skin and the black of the costume that only made him seem more pale, the fact that he hadn't gelled his hair yet and it lay loose and vaguely curled against his forehead--

\--for a few heart-clenching, breathless moments all Scott could see were the soaked features and cold, bored lack of light that the Nogitsune had brought to his best friend's eyes as it had turned the sword in his gut.

As he  _wasn't_ actually the Nogitsune, however, Stiles recognized the distress in Scott's expression before he could ever mobilize his mouth to verbalize it. He didn't understand it, that much was clear from the sad-panda way his face drooped down around the edges, but he knew it when he saw it. “Dude, what's wrong? You look like someone just kicked you in the balls.”

“It's nothing.” Scott knew the second the words were out of his mouth that he wouldn't be able to get away with that as an explanation. He sat up slowly, rolling his shoulders in the slightly-tight costume. “It's just that the last time I saw you with that much dark stuff around your eyes, you weren't...you.”

“Oh.” Stiles said, all the wind taken out of his sails. He looked down at the sleeves of his costume helplessly. “Well. Uh. Do you want me to change? I could probably … I don't know, I could do an urban Spider-Man thing, probably, that wouldn't look completely half-assed. Maybe three-quarters assed?”

Smiling, Scott rolled all the way to his feet. He crossed the space of Stiles' room to reach out and pat his friend's shoulder, right on the little red star. “Nah, it'll be okay, you've been planning this for like two weeks, which is an eternity for you and I won't take that away from you now. I know it's you. Besides, if you do your hair that'll help a lot. Let's just get going, okay?”

Stiles echoed his smile back, and Scott was sure he could never mistake that for an expression the Nogitsune was capable of. “Yeah, okay.”

 

*         *         *

 

Despite his misgivings, Scott found that Lydia's party wasn't _terrible_. It certainly wasn't the worst way he'd ever spent a Halloween. There were a lot of faces he only barely recognized from school, and he felt a little like an undercover cop in a room full of potential criminals, but they all seemed to be in reasonably good humor, more likely to compliment him on his attention to detail on the costume than cause any trouble. He was sure to point out to everyone who did that any and all credit for his costume could be laid at Stiles' feet.

Stiles who, for all that he'd made the party out to be a fulfillment of debt rather than something he had  _wanted_ to attend and who constantly complained about a crippling sense of social anxiety, seemed to be having a good time. It might have had to do with the bottle of JD that he'd stolen from his father's liquor cabinet and hid in the back of the Jeep until they got to the party. The last time Scott had seen that bottle it'd had more than half missing and Scott had very little real understanding of how much had gone into his best friend. Enough. It'd been enough, given the loose-limbed, free way that Stiles was moving through the party, letting people he hardly knew touch his face or examine the 'metal arm' of his costume.

It was a good look on Stiles, freedom. There was a certain carelessness to his actions that Scott hadn't seen in years, something a little unguarded that made him look young and bold even despite the eye black. Attitudinally he was a terrible Winter Soldier, but he was a version of himself that Scott had missed dearly during all of the supernatural _bullcrap_ that their lives had become over the last year or so. It was a flip on their normal dynamic, but Scott was perfectly satisfied to orbit around Stiles' sun with a useless beer in his hand, watching his friend move through the party and keeping a watchful eye on his antics.

Well, maybe not perfectly satisfied. Maybe he was a little  _more_ satisfied when Stiles saw fit to reel himself in close to Scott, draping one arm over Scott's shoulder. If he was, it was a secret he could harbor in the depths of his own mind. No one ever had to know.

Stiles was warm affection, smelling faintly of spiced apples and alcohol. He was careless with the edges of his body where they collided with Scott's, leaning in heavily and coming perilously close to pressing his nose into the space behind Scott's left ear. Scott tried to keep from letting his pulse hiccup too much in response. It wasn't like this was even the fifteenth time that Stiles had been this close to him.  _This close_ was a matter of course, a staple of their relationship. They worked in tandem or side-by-side but always in contact. It wasn't new.

Neither was the low burr that had entered Stiles' voice as he leaned on Scott, unfortunately. “Have I told you tonight that you're absolutely  _gorgeous_ in blue?”

This was Stiles' M.O. Get a little off his center, tense or nervous or a little tipsy, and immediately try to find his balance by putting Scott off-balance himself. There had been a dozen or more of these little comments Stiles had made over the course of their friendship, moreso in the latter years and since Scott had gotten Bitten, all of which angled at the idea of a friendship that was a little more than just friendship. They were carefully aimed shots off the bow, designed to stagger Scott's step and nothing else. It was Stiles' favorite form of combat, maybe the only form he was actually any good at, the art of being the last man standing after everyone else had been scandalized into submission. Stiles saw the fact that Scott was getting more and more inured to his antics as the years went on more as a challenge than an insult. Scott didn't have the heart to tell him that it wasn't  _inured_ so much as a selfish desire to keep the comments coming, so that Scott could have a place where, even for a few moments, he believed Stiles actually meant them.

“Stiles, you're drunk.” Scott admonished fondly, letting his shoulder drop to better support the weight that Stiles was leaning onto his body.

“ _No—_ okay, yes, a little bit, I'm a little drunk, but I'm not like  _smashed_ , dude. I'm  _pleasant_ . I'm good. And you are  _fine_ . In that uniform.  _Fi-ine_ . Especially kind of in this area.” Stiles tried to lean back, then, motioning with the hand not holding his drink towards Scott's butt. He started to teeter backwards before he could actually get around to touching, instead having to use his hand to dig into Scott's shoulder and keep himself upright.

Sighing, Scott moved one hand to brace it at the small of Stiles' back. “Come on, dude, you're way past buzzed, you don't even know what you're saying. There's probably a place you can lay down for a little bit upstairs. Lydia won't mind.”

Stiles' voice rumbled through a chuckle that rattled through his breastbone into Scott's shoulder. He was pliant enough, allowing Scott to use his other shoulder and the ridiculous little plastic shield that had come as part of his costume to make way through the crowd. Scott found Derek at the bottom of the stairs, standing with his shoulders square and his most surly of expressions painted carefully over his face. He wondered what Lydia had held over Derek's head to get him to play bouncer, but apparently it had been effective, because Derek was there, and  _Derek_ was effective, because he had a good foot of semi-circle room in front of him. People left him squarely alone. Subsequently, they also left Stiles and Scott alone as Derek gave them a nod and slide a little to the side to let them up the stairs.

Stiles left his drink in Derek's hand on the way up, announcing that going to do his duty for Czar and country. Scott was a little surprised Derek didn't actually develop eye lasers on the spot to drill a hole through Stiles' skull with.

He avoided the Quiet Room as a matter of course; the renovations on its ruined wall weren't finished, and the entire pack found the room a bit off-putting besides. Instead, he guided Stiles down the hall to a small bedroom, swinging the door shut behind them with a foot. “Okay, you should be able t--”

Stiles swallowed the rest of Scott's sentence. Literally swallowed it, with his mouth, because the minute that Scott shut the door he'd crowded in, pressing his hands against Scott's shoulders until they crashed back against the doorjam with a rattle. He tasted as much like mulled cider as he smelled, which Scott was getting an incredibly up-close and personal acquaintance with given how open Stiles' mouth was against his own. Scott's body stiffened, mostly in shock, and two or three of the most awkward moments of his life passed by marked only by the sudden rushing of his blood in a vaguely downwards direction. Stiles pulled back after those moments had passed, peering into Scott's face with intense scrutiny. “Wait. You didn't mean that to be code to come up here and make out?”

“Of  _course_ I didn't mean for it to be code to come up here and make out! Stiles, where the hell would you have gotten that idea?”

His head slid to the side, jaw-hinge first, the way Stiles always did when he was equivocating. He'd done it so much, at this point, Scott saw the first hint of lateral motion in his friend's head and he knew exactly how the conversation was going to shake down. “I don't know, 'cause that's always how it works in movies? Which, I realize, not exactly the best groundwork for the real world, but seriously, I told you that you're pretty and tried to grab the booty and you immediately said we should come upstairs, it kind of set up some expectations...”

Scott sighed again, using his hands to bracket Stiles' collarbone and push him gently back to the bed, guiding him to sit on the edge. “Stiles. Are you kidding me? Seriously, even if I want to, which we have literally never discussed ever, you're drunk. You're my best friend. I wouldn't take advantage of you like that.”

“Scott, I'm not that drunk. I'm like 'slightly lowered inhibitions' drunk, not 'black out no idea what I'm saying' drunk. It's not like I have exactly high inhibitions to start with, so it's totally not a problem.” Stiles' habit of lifting his eyebrows to try and prompt obedience or at least agreement in Scott looked especially weird with the dark greasepaint he'd scribbled around both eyes.

“ _Stiles_ , how am I supposed to trust you're coherent enough to make an informed decision, I don't want--”

Stiles lifted a hand to interrupt his friend, eyebrows still high up on his forehead. “I'm coherent enough to notice you said  _if I want to_ , not  _if I wanted to_ , which kind of implies you  _do_ want to, and I'm also coherent enough to notice that your main argument here isn't 'I'm not into that' but is instead one of those self-sacrificial bullshit things you do sometimes when you think you need to do them to take care of someone else. Except this time you're wrong, the best way you could  _take care_ of me is to let me put my mouth on your--”

“ _Stiles_ .”

The boy lurched to a stop, verbally, his lifted eyebrows collapsing downwards to make a furrow instead. Stiles pulled his lips into his mouth, and despite how drunken and off-kilter he'd seemed downstairs, Scott could feel the intensity of his gaze like those long, nimble fingers were pulling him open and testing against all of his soft places to see how much they'd take before they bruised. “Scott. Alcohol aside. Forget the alcohol. In a closed environment—would you wanna make out with me?”

Scott felt his heartbeat pick up and was immediately grateful that Stiles couldn't hear it. He looked to the side, hoping the rush of air coming out of his lungs sounded more frustrated than wanting. “Stiles, that isn't the point at all.”

“Uh,  _negativo_ , that is exactly the point. And a question I notice you are not answering. Would you do it? Make out? Swap spit? Get naked and filthy? 'Cause I can't help but notice we have this whole bedroom to ourselves and a  _bouncer_ and an enormous distraction for everyone downstairs.” Stiles spread both arms out to indicate the empty room. It drew attention to the silver of the faux-metal arm. It drew attention to how unfairly the shirt clung to the shape of his musculature beneath. “I mean,  _seriouly_ , Scott, I want this, I've wanted this, this is full-bore consent, this is all the  _yes_ I can muster, this is the alcohol letting me not be a dumbshit about this, I will record a video for sober me to remind him of the sheer amount of  _consent_ going on here if that's what you want, and trust me, sober me is just gonna thank tipsy me for doing him a solid because the Scooty McBooty is like the Holy Grail and--”

“OH my God, Stiles, you're absolutely ridiculous.” Scott groaned, putting both hands over his face. He was, he'd always been ridiculous, and the terrible thing was that Scott  _liked_ it. He'd always liked it, he'd always liked the parts of Stiles that were unafraid to be bold in a way Scott never was. He liked his lack of reservation, the sheer and unmitigated passion he could bring to any activity that truly caught his interest. He immediately thought of how well he could use that passion in bed and something started to grow tight in his lower belly.

_Oh Hell_ . He hoped he wasn't going to regret this in the morning. Scott dropped his hands slowly. “Okay.”

Stiles straightened himself shoulders-first, blinking. “Okay?”

“Okay. Let's do this. I'm … Yes. I want to. But on one condition.” Part of Scott had expected to feel anxious, but as soon as he'd agreed, the weight of the entire situation had whisked itself away, and all Scott was really feeling was mounting anticipation.

Stiles pursed his distracting, frustrating mouth. “What's the condition?”

Scott let himself consider Stiles' face for a long time, a smile slowly creeping up over his features. “We get rid of the crap on your eyes. I know it's important to your costume and all, but I just...I want to look at you and see  _you_ , Stiles. I don't want this to have any connection to the terrible things in the past. I just want this to be about now. So you just stay here, and I'm going to go find something to remove greasepaint with, and then I'm going to be right back. Okay?”

Something watery lapped at the edges of Stiles' smile, but what he said was, “ _God_ , you're a sap. Yeah. Yeah, I'll be right here. Trust me. Not going anywhere, buddy.”

Scott slid back out of the room, barely pulling the door to behind him before he'd turned, scanning up and down the hallway. He found the bathroom in seconds and had to physically restrain himself from sprinting to it. The tug he opened the medicine cabinet with almost pulled the damn thing off of its hinges, and Scott growled at it like it could recognize he was scolding it before he started to go through the contents. It felt like it took entirely too long before he had a collection of toiletries gathered up triumphantly in the crook of one arm. Taking care to close the cabinet with more gentleness than he showed it when he opened it, Scott spun on his heel and bolted back across the hall with none of the dignity he'd had going out.

At first, Scott thought that he'd missed his opportunity; Stiles had taken the time alone to sprawl out over the bed, one leg hooked at the knee and his fingers folded against his stomach. Scott would have let him sleep, he really would have, still convinced his friend was more inebriated than Stilles would admit, but Stiles turned to face him as he walked in the door and the heat in those honey-bright eyes was more than enough to wipe his mind clean of anything that might have resembled turning around or changing his mind.

No one had ever looked at him like that before, not even Allison. It was—it was  _something_ .

He dumped his ill-gotten goods out on the endtable next to the bed and Stiles rolled onto his side to consider them, mouth twitching up around a smirk. “Wow, did you bring the whole pharmacy, dude? What exactly are you expecting to get up to? Well, actually, doesn't matter, I'm probably up for it.”

Scott laughed, shaking his head ruefully. “Lay back. I've got these make-up wipes, like I've seen my Mom use. I'm gonna dig you out from under all that raccoon make-up.” He took the bed with a knee, waiting for Stiles to follow instructions. “On your back. Close your eyes.”

For as resistant and recalcitrant as Stiles could be, as a human being and to the general public, he bowed easily to Scott's request, burrowing in against the mattress with tiny motions of his shoulders and neck. Still smiling, Scott waited until his friend was reasonably settled, and then shifted his body, slinging one leg over Stiles' so that he could straddle him, not-quite resting his weight against Stiles' pelvis. There was a satisfyingly sudden sharp intake of breath from Stiles, and he lifted his hands to press them against Scott's hips, fingers moving. Scott ignored them for the time being, instead focused on leaning forward, bracing one hand against the bed beside Stiles' head and using the other one to tend to his face with the make-up wipes.

Scott was tender, vitally aware of how easy it would be to damage Stiles with too much pressure in the wrong place. He was careful as he swept the wipe along the orbit of Stiles' eye, smearing away what seemed like pound after pound of black grease in search of the pale skin underneath. He dabbed delicately across either lid, going through wipe after wipe until finally,  _finally_ , the eye black that had dominated Stiles' face all night was little more than a faint stain and an afterthought over otherwise perfect skin. It made something in Scott's heart swell to know that the seeming bruising and darkness on his friend's features was so easily wiped away, that this time it was nothing more sinister than paint. While Stiles' eyes were still closed, he curled one hand along the line of Stiles' jaw, thumb brushing along his cheekbone. The pulse of the boy below him picked up a little speed, and Scott smiled to himself, leaning down to press gentle kisses against Stiles' eyelids. “There you are.”

Stiles opened his mouth and tipped his head back, trying a second time to catch Scott's mouth in a kiss. This time, Scott let him.

It was still spiced apples and the bite of alcohol, but it was also early fall warmth and undeniable lightning in the dark and something quantifiably Stiles, familiar in a way most of the world had stopped being. Stiles gave only to make room for what he took from Scott, licking at Scott's lips until he opened them and then there was that sharp-rondel-dagger tongue of his, moving into his mouth, taking Scott's upper lip captive so that Stiles could press it between his own, give it the faintest nip of eager teeth. The hands on his hips tightened, fingerprints digging in through the costume. The need to have those hands on his bare skin hit him like a freight train and dragged him along for the ride unexpectedly, leaving Scott rolling himself downwards against the resistance of Stiles' body.

The sound it made Stiles offer into the cavern of Scott's mouth was downright holy. He needed to hear it over and over until it echoed in his bones.

He pulled away in pieces, lips clinging here, teeth scraping there, until he could sit upright again, ignoring Stiles' quiet mewl of protest. Stiles opened his eyes slowly, pupils already blown wide, eyebrows pursing in silent question, and Scott answered by putting his hands on the vest of Stiles' Halloween costume, plucking at its edges. “Clothes. Too many clothes. We need--”

“I got it.” Stiles said, moving his hands from Scott's hips to hook his fingertips under the hem of his own shirt. He was a champion wiggler, sliding his shoulders first one way and then the other as he peeled off vest, faux arm sleeve and undershirt in one motion. Scott had all of the best intentions to help, but he ended up instead utterly captivated by the widening strip of Stiles' bare skin, the way his muscles rippled in his belly and along his sides as he struggled out of his shirts. Aware that he should be doing something,  _anything_ to help the process other than staring abjectly, Scott brought his own hands up, slipping first one strap and then the other of the shield-harness off with a slowness that was almost virginal.

Stiles noticed, because Stiles always noticed, and gave a little laugh as soon as he was free of his shirt, shoving his hands up under Scott's own shirt to put his palms against Scott's abdomen. There was the faintest bite to his words when he spoke, like he was afraid of them having truth in them. Stiles frequently seemed afraid of the truth. “Losing your nerve already, Scotty?”

The thing was, that wasn't it at all, and Scott had rarely if ever been scared of honesty. He rolled his shoulders forward to help Stiles strip him of his shirt, grin going lopsided. He was barely out of the clothing before he'd leaned back down, pressing a wet kiss to the hook of Stiles' jaw while Stiles wasn't expecting it. “Hardly. I was captivated. Enthralled. Moonstruck.”

“ _Now_  who's ridiculous?” Stiles said, voice all smug and rich. He put one hand against the back of Scott's neck and pressed faintly like he could keep Scott's face where it was with the pressure. The other slid lower, following the path of least resistance through Scott's obliques.

He turned his hand on the bias and without any more preamble, shoved it straight down Scott's pants. The touch of his fingers surprised him, sent a series of shockwaves echoing through Scott's body that kept their epicenter between his legs, and Scott gasped, inadvertently nipping at the skin of Stiles' neck, beneath his mouth. Stiles gave a low, filthy groan and his fingers tightened around Scott's filling cock in a spasm, so Scott nipped at him again, this time with intention. They got caught in a feedback loop of moans and teeth and fingertips that ended with Scott's pants around his ankles and Stiles' entire neck stretched out before him, mottled red with his arousal and the evidence of Scott's eager attention to it. “Scott,  _fuck_ , Scott, I, I--”

Scott rolled himself into the touch of Stiles' hand, using his own fingers to roll down the tight black pants that had previously been part of being the Winter Soldier. His voice was rough as it came out of his throat, already wrecked. “Tell me, Stiles. What do you want?”

Stiles wiggled his fingers lower, stroking them along the bottom of Scott's cock until it throbbed against his palm. “I want you to put this glorious thing inside me.”

Even the intimacy of the way Stiles was touching him couldn't hold Scott's own native sarcasm, less readily seen from Stiles' but hardly non-existent, at bay. “Oh. So romantic. I am totally wooed.”

“Shut up and fuck me senseless, Scotty.”

It was clearly time to give Stiles something better to do with his mouth than run it.

Scott didn't separate from Stiles so much as slide up along his body, arm stretched out for the end table and the pilfered lube and condoms he'd left there. It gave Stiles ample opportunity to move that mouth along his collarbone and his chest, laughing wickedly when the work of his teeth and lips against one of Scott's nipples drew a surprised, rumbling intake of breath. He tucked the bottle of lube up against Stiles' hip to warm it and Stiles' low groan became a sudden yelp, body squirming away from the chill of the plastic. Scott laughed and then soothed him with a broad hand skimmed down his flank. Getting to Stiles' hip, he worked the hinge of his leg, spreading them apart and putting the pale boy on display for him while he opened the lube and measured some out into his hand. There was something unspeakably magnificent about it, the lean lines of Stiles' body, the muscle he'd put on recently that tipped his scales now more towards 'man' than 'skinny teenager', the arc of his hard cock as it rose up against his belly, tapping with every heavy breath. Scott couldn't help himself, he leaned down to run the flat of his tongue along the line where Stiles' leg met his body, smugly satisfied at the way it made Stiles' body jerk against the bed. “Have I told you tonight that you're gorgeous in nothing?”

Stiles gusted a breath that started life as a laugh but transmuted halfway through to a low groan as Scott pressed the first lube-slick finger to his entrance. There was a direct correlation between the pitch of Stiles' voice, pouring out of him in a constant river, and the angle and depth of Scott's fingers in him; he found he could play him like a beloved instrument. The music Stiles made for him was perfect. It was everything.

He backed his fingers out slowly when he determined that Stiles was open enough for him, leaning up to cap his mouth over the shakey sound of disappointment that Stiles tried to offer. Scott had expected, maybe, that he'd have been more nervous in this moment, that his hands might have trembled as they smoothed the condom down over his erection. It felt like it should have felt more monumental, that Stiles was laying below him already looking half-debauched and waiting, stretched wide and arcing with his readiness, for Scott to debauch him the rest of the way. It felt like it  _should_ have been terrifying, full of terrible potential, but it wasn't. It just...wasn't. It felt like an inevitable conclusion.

It felt like the most right thing he could have done, so  _good_ , when Stiles rolled his hips up to meet him for the first incremental thrust. Scott knew it wasn't fair, especially in this moment, to compare this to lovers who had come before, but there was an electric spark that Scott had never known before, in their moment of connection. Stiles' body was harder and firmer and tighter than anything, clinging to him in ways he hadn't known were possible but had somehow always wanted. Wet, unremitting heat clenched around him and then relaxed to make space, and Scott rumbled around his sigh, grinding down until his body was flush with Stiles', belly to belly, Stiles' thighs gripping around his waist and holding him tight. It took him a few seconds to realize Stiles was speaking in a voice like tripping over broken pieces in the sidewalk, “Oh, oh thank God, it's you finally. You're here, you're...you're finally... _Jesus_ , Scott, it's...”

Scott wrapped around Stiles as much as Stiles was wrapped around him, curling both arms around his shoulders, and losing track of his fingers in the hair at the back of Stiles' head. They kept a slow, sweet rhythm, nothing nearly as frantic as Scott had thought they might have gone. He could feel the potentiality for it, the searing heat of passion that ran as an undercurrent between them, but this wasn't the time for that. Despite how likely it was they'd get barged in on with a lakehouse full of people just one floor below and only one Derek guarding the stairs, there seemed to be some kind of unspoken agreement between them to take their time, to enjoy each other and the slick motion of their bodies as sweat and other things wet their skin.

He worked in Stiles and he worked over Stiles, mouthing along his neck, listening to every whimper and the long spill of words Stiles couldn't seem to help himself from offering up every time Scott rolled into his body. He attended to the scent of him, thick in the air around them, the sound of his heart in the echo chamber of his chest, the feeling of his body as it started to tense around Scott. The closer to the edge he got, the more Stiles seemed willing to beg from Scott something Scott was already giving him, fingertips tracing the runnel of spine over and over again. There was the sharp, temporary bite of Stiles' nails in his skin, and then Stiles was also muffling a shout into Scott's shoulder, body shuddering beneath him. Pressed against his belly as it was, Scott could feel every pulse of Stiles' dick as his orgasm splashed out of him, and that as it turned out was too much for even an alpha werewolf to hold out against. Burying his face into Stiles' neck, Scott let himself fall over that edge only moments later, not shouting but instead giving a low keen of satisfaction.

Draped against Stiles' body in the aftermath, shivers running down his spine to chase every fond stroke of Stiles' fingertips over the same skin, Scott felt he probably could have fallen asleep and forgotten all about the party downstairs. He almost had, in fact, until he felt Stiles' face turn towards his, voice gone speculative. “...you know, Lydia's going to kill us if she finds us up here. Or, you know, if she can't find us when she's looking for us. But especially if she finds us like this.”

He didn't want to move. Scott sighed, and felt it came out a little theatrically. “We should probably go back downstairs.”

“Yeah. We probably should.”

Parting wasn't so much sweet sorrow as incredibly sticky reluctance. Scott felt like it seemed a little shameful to clean up after themselves with Kleenexes and discarded make-up wipes when all he wanted to do was revel in the evidence, in the fact that this had happened at all, but it was what they had. Stiles almost made up for it anyway, an uncharacteristic tenderness in his eyes and his gestures as he insisted on cleaning the mess he'd made of Scott's abdomen. “Next time, straight to the showers, this is kind of gross.”

Scott only smiled, heart thrilling through his throat at the idea of  _next time_ .

Stiles had an amateur exhibitionist streak that insisted he wear the Captain America costume home, regulating Scott to the Winter Soldier. It was even tighter across the chest than the first costume and a little long in the arm, but looking up as he fussed with the cuffs to the figure Stiles cut in the blue and white, shield in one hand, Scott had no regrets. After all, he'd been right.

Freedom was a good look on Stiles.


End file.
